Loss
by SpockLikesCats
Summary: "The Battle of Vulcan." A singularly stupid name. How do we confront such horror and destruction and loss of life? How do we stop thinking about it? Weep ... reason ... dream ... remember ... reflect ... meditate ... draw together in sorrow ...


**_[Author Note:_**_ this story is not intended to infringe on any copyright held by CBS/Paramount. It is intended only to honor & enjoy the "Star Trek 09" 'verse and so far as I know is based only on Linstock's painting and my own previous fannish work._**_]_**

**Loss**

By Spock Likes Cats

Inspired by a Linstock painting.

_**Nyota**_

"Home" from a long talk and a drink with Len McCoy, Uhura threw her uniform in the 'fresher unit and took a quick sonic shower. Wanting comfort, she dimmed the lights and snuggled into the bed she shared with Spock. He wasn't here, was probably still working, checking the progress of repairs or doing some himself. She sat up, reached out for her Padd, about to double-check some items from today's Comms Log, but stopped herself. There'd been nothing unusual today that demanded review; comms had been strictly routine and it was way past time for her to quit for the day. Fingering the silken throw at the foot of the bed – like several of the wall hangings, its ground was a rich red, but this had a black design woven through it – she longed to stroke the satiny skin of Spock's shoulders and run her fingers through his hair. She was tired and wanted to sleep but she couldn't sleep because Spock wasn't there, and only his presence staved off the nightmares.

_Spock's been working too much_, Uhura thought. He had done almost nothing but work since the.…

She stood up and, trying to distract herself, got her uniform out of the fresher. As she moved to hang it up she noticed his uniform, newly cleaned, in the closet. He'd finished work, then, and changed, so must be meditating, probably in one of the private spaces in the Observation Deck. Outside of their brief, shared meals, when he wasn't working or sleeping, he meditated.

Spock had told her that when he dreamed, which was seldom, he usually relived memories. The few dreams he'd had recently, though, were about things even more disastrous than what had happened.

The other night he had roared out of sleep – "Mother! No-o-o! … NYOTA!" – startling her awake. Bringing herself instantly into focus she saw Spock, his long, pale back heaving with deep, rapid breaths. Sitting up, she reached out a gentle hand to touch him. His breathing slowed, and after a few moments he turned to her, lifting his hands to frame her face, and kissed her softly. "My Nyota …" he whispered, gathering her to him, resting his head on hers. "In the dream," he said, "I lost you, too … my _k'diwa_." They had held each other for hours, making diversionary conversation; neither wanted to sleep.

He was exhausted these days; Nyota had never seen him so tired as after….

She was truly at a loss as to how to name it. From Fleet communications in the aftermath of Vulcan's end – and that of Nero, the insane Romulan – Nyota gathered that Starfleet had named it "the Battle of Vulcan."

A singularly stupid name, since the Vulcans had not even got a chance to battle, and nor had anyone else, really; she knew that much valiant phaser-and-torpedo-firing and shiphandling had happened in the moments before the Fleet ships and people were destroyed, but the battle at Vulcan had been for the fleet's survival against Nero's incredibly powerful weapons. And – as she recalled from her Academy practicum in War Fighting – it was likely a _Kelvin_-style last-ditch effort to shoot all the weapons they had at _Narada_ and save as many Starfleet persnnel as possible through the hated "Abandon Ship" maneuver.

In no wise could it be called a battle.

Like all cadets she had seen holovids of _Kelvin_'s end. During officer training she had seen many representations of battles and death and horrors of war and pestilence and disaster, but she had never seen anything like the destruction of a whole planet. This … _enormity_ was something for which no one could be prepared.

The chaos of Vulcan communications academies, safety agencies, spaceports and ships in orbit trying to make contact … the calm voices crossing over one another, never betraying desperation or fear … Uhura had heard them, and contacted Space Central to let them know _Enterprise_ had arrived, that they were engaging the enemy … when the communications cut out.

Starfleet was the "advance team" representing the peaceful aims and cooperation of the races of the Federation. Essentially they were an organization of optimists, prepared for but not inured to, war and tragedy. They learned the wisest ways to avert disaster and prevent conflicts; captains and first officers were trained in diplomacy. Captain Pike had, in several lectures, called the Fleet a "peacekeeping and humanitarian armada."

Although their starships had the capability, Fleeters weren't geared to make war. They joined because they wanted to Seek Out New Life and New Civilizations, to Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before, as it said on every ship's plaque at the entry to every Bridge. Starfleet rescued, Starfleet built, Starfleet defended.

Maybe the ships at Vulcan were analogous to the line in the old Coast Guard anthem, the lyrics "to fight to save or fight and die." A line proudly quoted by Fleet marines and the "Red Shirt" Security Division on every starship.

How many brave officers had thought they were on a mission that would end in saving Vulcan? How many hearts had swelled at the thought of all the souls they could save, distinguished by an ancient civilization so rich in intelligence and culture?

_I wish I could stop seeing it, stop feeling it. I've exercised, I've killed Nero in the gym a thousand times, I've swum, I've danced, I've even had a drink – __bad__ idea – I've done everything to tire my body and distract my mind, but still I see the dead … feel the blows from other ships, dead ships, shaking the Enterprise … hear the Vulcans' calm voices … I've been working hard, but I can't work very well, because I'm so tired. And so sad._

_Oh, Spock, I need to hold you. I need to feel secure. I need to give you that too. I know you hurt, but you work and work to avoid thinking about it. Oh, neither of us can __not__ think about it. But we need each other now, don't we? To get through it together? Because right now the mourning … okay, yes, __and__ the fear … feel like they'll never end. I'm so lonely right now._

She stared out the viewport in the quarters that were Spock's, that she now shared. Her quarters were presently occupied by a Vulcan family, or what was left of one.

Out there were stars, on their field of black. With the occasional bright gas cloud or nebula … she hadn't seen a star cluster since the first days after the ….

She used to love looking at the stars. As a child, on one of the beaches near Mombasa, lying down – heedless of the sand up her back, and in her hair – she'd gaze at tens of thousands of stars … _more than grains of sand on the beach_ … while water lapped the land's edge and soft breezes touched her skin. On every cadet excursion, every practice shuttle run, every trip to another planet for scientific surveys or language exchange programs, she'd had at least one off-duty instance of someone saying to her, "Hey, Uhura, we're in here, come back …!" No matter what card or board game she was winning, her attention always wandered to the viewport and the vision beyond. The infinite. Space.

The Final Frontier.

Too many had transited that frontier into the finality of death. All their voices came back to her now; most she would never hear again: playful shouts across the quad, into her ear at a dance club, at the pool, laughter from a night of drinking after a day of tough exams, wisecracks during training exercises.

Some of her friends from the academy had survived because they were here, on _Enterprise_: McCoy, Sulu and Chekov. Kirk. Tran. Charionsapeephod, known by one and all as "Peapod". Sivahn. N'KFaaaz. Halloran. Chen. TreNarv. Rajputi, who, like herself, spoke over twenty-eight languages. Nyota was grateful for every one of them who had known her in the days of their innocence.

And oh, God, what about Gaila? In the chaos before leaving Earth, after she got her ship assignment, Nyota's roomie had grinned happily and grasped her hands briefly in farewell – thrilled to be shipping out at last.

Gaila on a typical Friday night, resplendent in a blue sequined dress and orange stiletto pumps, her curly red hair shining as brightly as her blue eyes. "C'mon, Yoo-hoo, don't be such a _drone_. Come dancing! Please?"

Nyota's eyes misted. _Oh, I hope you're still here. You've always been such a lively spirit._

And what of Commander Charles, Academy choir director (and Communications specialist in tonal languages)? She'd never had a conductor as sensitive to moods in music, so able to draw the corresponding colors from voices, so good with people.

So many talents, so many personalities, so many smiles, so much confidence, so much kindness. Erased in minutes by a madman who had lost his _own_ planet, his _own_ people. _I never thought there was this much pain in the universe – I was so …_ There was heat at the backs of her eyes and her vision began to blur.

_**Spock**_

For Vulcans, repeated meditations after the deaths of people close to them had two purposes: to consciously review and honor the impact upon one's life of those who had died, the other to supplant grief with those memories, quieting the mind.

He sat silently, seeing the stars but looking inward. Outwardly still but within, dinning with turmoil. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes now to concentrate further.

Calling on the ancestors. And one so recently ascended to that milieu.

_Mother,_ he breathed. _Would you indeed have said, "Do not try to control your anger"? You were so aware of our ability to feel complete passion, flame-hot rage. Would you truly want me to give in to such uncontrollable emotions? To lose myself? To become an unreasoning being centered only upon revenge? I gave in for a moment – I nearly murdered Kirk. _

_Upon whom would I avenge your death now? Nero is dead, yet here I am, still grieving. Vengeance does nothing to relieve sorrow._

_I recall, Mother, those days I came home with tears streaking my face, and Father's reaction to my show of emotion. How you defended me. "He's half human," you said. "He needs to feel." And how Father would answer, in most instances, "Yes, my wife; and he must learn to master his feelings and keep them __within__. You are aware of what feelings led Vulcans to do in the past." And then you would say, in that tone that Father recognized as "gentle ribbing," because you and he discussed this same issue many times in my youth, "Yes, my husband, I know; Surak was very wise. As are you." How many nights you came in to "say goodnight" and would stay, conversing, helping me understand – and deal with – my feelings._

Spock could feel his mother's wrists inside his gently grasping hands, sense the warmth of her breath as she used to kiss him good-night. Smell her hair, rich with a rosemary scent, tickling him as it spilled past her hovering face. Feel the zephyr touch of her fingers tracing the point of his ear and brushing his cheek. He gusted a sigh and gulped air, then …

Slowly exhaled his sorrow, inhaled gratitude: his shipmates, and Nyota, _k'diwa_, _ashayam_, _all-you-are-to-all-I-am_, had survived.

Regretted his words in reply to Kirk, speaking of mercy for Nero: "Compassion, Spock – I thought you'd like that."

" … Not this time." (So easily spoken, as if tossing off a thought to a fellow instructor dealing with a minor disciplinary issue.)

And Kirk's response to the enraged, grief-stricken Romulan, who asserted his wish to "die a thousand times rather than accept mercy from you!"

"YOU GOT IT."

Was chilled now, thinking of the ease with which a Constitution-class starship could rain down destruction. Kirk must have authorized the weapons fire for the crew's catharsis; the gravity well would have done for Nero. The black hole had easily swallowed _Narada_ – the black hole that was once his home planet.

There was an ache in his side.

Students came back to him now, eager young minds, geniuses in many cases; Pavel Chekov, Hikaru Sulu, and Nyota Uhura were still alive, but how many were no longer? He remembered – would always remember – each of his students.

Their erect posture and pride in their finely tailored "Cadet Reds", their maturity – or immaturity, their boundless energy. Their hunger for knowledge, their unity under the banner _Ad Astra Scientia_, students of all different races, shapes, sizes and colors.

Their individual quirks: Xiao and her hooting laugh, Potokwene with his bright smile and booming voice, perfect in any language; Jitpleecheep, his gentle eyes belying his talent in Tactics – and _suus mahna_; we'Hplai and h'r'is ability to sing, whistle and speak in every perceptible pitch.

Occasional outbursts of inappropriate cadet humor – the silent laughter during personnel inspection, evinced by shaking shoulders and strange facial expressions, especially about the eyes and mouth. "Sailor talk" in the passageways, hastily finished when the speakers perceived an instructor's presence (Spock and Tholev, both very silent on their feet, had surprised many a cadet, to Tholev's not inconsiderable delight). Himself saying, "As you were" tolerantly or peremptorily and seeing their reactions – usually an "inspection face", with suppressed laughter – or the large eyes of panic. An endless variety of sloppy distribution of personal belongings when he inspected dormitories. The sheepish grins of cadets who'd "forgot today was Inspection, sir."

His students' embarrassment in classes at being "caught short". Their sure knowledge that Spock respected only their best efforts and was not tolerant of laziness, easy explanations, or excuses. Their eyes sparkling with understanding when they fully integrated concepts. Their smiles when they solved problems or favorably concluded scenarios, and their silence and sadness at the end of the _Kobayashi Maru_. Their respect for him, which he returned.

The _waste_ – trained junior and senior officers, the many ships … what of the young communications officer who'd gone to _Farragut_ in Nyota's stead? If that officer had died, Spock would carry guilt for the rest of his life.

His diaphragm contracted. He eased it.

His birth home … he had not personally witnessed its dissolution; he had been in the transporter room, reaching for a beloved hand, lost to him. Later he saw the holovids and heard the reports by fellow scientists, watched his planet blow apart, contract, and disappear. With six billion Vulcan lives, not counting the many other species which inhabited the world. With the entire landscape of his early life ….

Some Vulcans had looked askance at Spock but respected his genius in mathematics and the sciences. The head of the Vulcan Science Academy was a typical example, admitting Spock to that institution while seemingly compelled to make his statement about Spock's '_disadvantage'_ of a human mother. Yet, for all that unlikely prejudice, what scientific advances had now been lost, so many brilliant scientists having died with their planet?

Spock had always had the odd glance directed at him. To his father's people, it was obvious he was not fully Vulcan. To humans, he could "pass" for full Vulcan – and usually had, in his early time on Earth, simply to keep them at a distance. Myths had circulated for so long about the coldness of Vulcans; early on these had saved Spock many awkward personal interactions. He functioned within the parameters of military courtesy and most humans tried very hard not to "bother" him. How little they understood the Vulcan impulse toward courtesy (albeit cool courtesy) and generosity. They had made assumptions and Spock "played to" those, while he accustomed himself to being surrounded with humans. After a while he grew more comfortable in their presence and relaxed his demeanor somewhat– to the great surprise of many. (Some even assumed their "humanity" had "rubbed off" on him. This amused Spock – their natural assumption of the desirability of being human.)

As a young child, he'd been the object of much attention, especially when he accompanied his mother to the market and the shops. But most Vulcans had treated him with great gentility and a mild curiosity. He'd seen a subtle twinkle in many an eye (including Amanda's) as vendors and artisans urged him to try something: to smell a spice … to feel hand-thrown clay and the designs carved into it before it went into the kiln … to stroke the satiny wood meant for a lyre or the dense black _Thlaxx_ wood used for heavy furniture.

Mother, sitting beside him at the piano in the great room at home, teaching him to understand musical notation, then guiding his hands to make musical patterns on the keys, demonstrating by playing simple pieces, encouraging him to try. Her excitement when he played his first (elementary) J.S. Bach.

Sarek, showing him the Vulcan lyre and listening to his initial, clumsy efforts (apparently Spock revealed some talent to his father), then taking him to the lyre-maker.

Spock recalled being measured for the proper size of instrument, then weeks later, sitting still, receiving the beautiful wooden lyre, experimentally plucking the strings, his father standing by, silent but proud. How Sarek had taught him to play with a deft touch and eventually sought out T'Pral, his own instructor, now a white-haired composer of renown, to teach Spock. Her soft gaze, showing approval of Spock's musical sensitivity.

Mother, playing Chopin's "Berceuse," lulling him to sleep after a stressful day, coming in after she had done, to "check on him" and murmur, "Good night, I love you."

Lying on his back in the desert at age four, "camping out" with Amanda ... I-Chaya at one side, warmly snuffling in sleep, Mother at his other, telling stories of her youth, and how she'd met Sarek (who was now away at some conference). The subtle and pleasant odors of the land around them; the sounds of the night birds; the chill of the air and the ground beneath them, the deep blackness of the sky, the brilliance of the shining stars. Amanda marveled at their beauty – "Even though I know a lot of the science, stars will never simply be distant suns. I enjoy their _beauty_."

"But they are not simply distant, they are gas – "

"I know, dear. Now back on Earth, we had mythical names for all the constellations. But since they're all different here, why don't you and I name some? Because for me, strictly technical names just won't do."

"Very well, Mother."

"Draw imaginary lines from one bright star to another. Can you draw a shape that looks like I-Chaya?"

For a moment, he hesitated. Using one's imagination was, perhaps, not the Vulcan way. But he had not yet chosen one way over another, only assumed a stoic mien in public and at school. So he raised his finger to trace a design upon the stars, and his mother laughed once, hugging Spock's shoulders into the crook of her arm, and said, "Yes, darling! There he is exactly!" I-Chaya groaned in his sleep just then and they grinned at each other.

His father teaching him desert lore and skills for survival, and later, Spock's _kahs-wan_, during which these skills had aided him. The distant roars of _Le-Matya_ and wild _sehlats_, the hisses and darting movements of poison _xik-xik_ lizards. How these sounds, and scents and breezes, had assumed more intensity while he, a seven-year-old child, had travelled alone from Shi'Kar to the l-Langon Mountains and home again. How those same stars had helped him navigate.

Excepting the children at school his people were subdued, but always kindly in nature (it was the Vulcan way, equanimity), nodding to him in the street, answering his endless questions, helping him to understand things.

T'Pring, daughter of a distinguished scholar, Seking, and the diplomat T'prael, had early on been kind and friendly to him. This was why their parents had decided the children suited each other well enough to become life partners. They had explored the terrain of Shi'Kar and its surrounds making scientific observations and conducted long conversations, scientific, childish, curious … mutually enjoyable.

T'Pring had been most interested in the architecture of their home; the water features and evaporation capture system Sarek had built in for Amanda were unlike anything she had ever seen. The children spent time crouched by the indoor _koi_ pond, watching the fish swaying in their leisurely paths through the shallow water, feeding them nutritive pellets as the fish crowded at the surface near them, mouths gaping. "Here," Spock said, extending a finger, "They'll nibble your finger if you let them." The first time she had done this T'Pring had laughed with quickly suppressed delight.

She cared for all animals and was quite fascinated with his family's cats, stroking them, looking deep into their eyes. "What is the cause of the iridescence in their eyes? Do you see?"

They had immediately sought an authoritative source on Terran _felis domesticus_ and found the answer.

T'Pring had been fascinated by Amanda's rose garden, touching the flowers' silk-soft petals, lingering near the pink-tinged "tea roses", so richly scented. Many times Amanda had cut a rose, or a small bouquet, and placed it in the small girl's outstretched hands to take home. "Keep it in a vase near your bed for sweet dreams," she would say, and T'Pring would raise an eyebrow at Spock: _Doesn't she know we do not dream?_

Spock would make no reply, for he did dream, but he would assume an expression of agreement with her.

How lovely T'Pring had grown – but, under the influence of Stonn and his cohorts – how dismissive and cold. Their early friendship became a source of hidden pain; every time she turned her back, or expressed disgust with his human heritage, it stabbed at him. As he grew older he learned to dismiss her actions and his resultant feelings ... she grew older and more beautiful, exciting feelings in his depths that he could never express.

Now so many lives had met their end, and Spock honored them now by remembering those who had impacted his. T'Pral, wizened by time but ageless in music, her gnarled fingers light and deft on the strings of the beautiful lyre. The artisans Mother loved to visit, from whom she purchased beautifully crafted, useful items – T'Maya, the clothing merchant, who instinctively understood Amanda's sense of style; Krunach, the potter; his brother Senach, the furniture maker; T'Naud, inscribing her poetry on scrolls with deft brushstrokes. Each had demonstrated aspects of their artistic practices for Spock.

A retired exogeologist, T'Kier, who lived nearby, had served as a civilian in the early days of Starfleet and sparked Spock's interest in exploring space, accounting her journeys with fascinating detail.

Sevek, the old gardener at the youth academy, had always had wise words for Spock when he asked searching questions about people. He also recalled with gratitude his meditation teachers, old and young: T'Han, Shodron, Saram.

He knew it was not logical to believe in the existence of _katras_, but although Vulcans were very logical they also believed in the importance of things spiritual, of things beyond rational, scientific understanding. They well understood joy and passion and sorrow.

He was brought to the end of his meditation by an intense cry of grieving heart to grieving heart.

As he stood, glancing out the viewport of the Observation Deck, the stars glimmered strangely. He realized his face was wet.

_**Nyota**_

They superimposed themselves on the stars now, broken ships, broken people, globules of bodily fluids, floating, tumbling over one another in infinite motion begun by intense forces … titanium ships' plating, engine parts, chairs, ships' instrument panels, wires hanging, deckplates, bunks, elements of a home in space, colliding with formerly living beings or their body parts, frozen now in the vacuum and endless cold of space. Or sucked into the black hole, by now.

Vulcan, that vast warmly beautiful planet populated by billions, blowing inward and out of existence in the space of seconds into a brief bright flash; her beloved Spock returning ashen-faced from rescuing the Elders, having lost his mother in the instance … _I cried for you, _mpenzi_; with your shuttered eyes, letting me hold and kiss you – kissing me back, needfully, holding me to you – breathing in, stepping back, speaking stiff-lipped, saying nothing personal, lest your emotions_ –

_Oh, God … ohgodohgodohgod I can't – _

She stood, shaking. She had been tightly coiled in the chair, keeping herself warm as best she could, too numb to move and cover herself; now she backed away from the viewport, her eyes streaming, chin trembling, diaphragm and throat quaking with ugly sobs, loud, long, undulating exhalations of sorrow – she folded her arms tightly, gripping her shoulders, trying to hold on to sanity.

Suddenly she felt his warmth; Spock, holding her, wrapping his arms around her from the back, the silk throw from the foot of the bed around them both.

"Nyota," he said, and in the sound of her name was all the loss he had suffered and all the comfort left to him. He enfolded her completely, and the full presence of him – his person, his essence, the bond connecting his mind with hers – was as warm as his strong arms.

_**A/N:** Thank you for reading. I hope that you liked the story. Please comment if you did, or if you have constructive comments to help me be a better writer._

_Are there other ST09 "scenes you'd like to see"? (Scenes that do not include PWP, by the way) Let me know.  
_

_Find Linstock's painting at LinstockDOTdeviantartDOTcomS LANT#SLANTd5iysm5 ... it is gorgeous. Please comment to her there. She put a lot of care into it!_

_Find illustrated versions of the story at LinstockDOTdeviantartDOTcomS LANT#SLANTd5iytgw **or** LinstockDOTdeviantartDOTcomS LANT#SLANTd5iyuqc. Again, please tell her if you enjoy all the care and artistry in her work._

_LINSTOCK ROCKS!_


End file.
